


Dagor Dagorath Fail

by Anonymous



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:22:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The End of Days isn't going exactly as planned.  Something I've had on my hard drive for quite a while.  I've updated it a bit, and posted it so you can enjoy.





	Dagor Dagorath Fail

Manwë gazed about his wife's most spacious garden with satisfaction tinged with consternation.

They had been gathering for a day or so – ever since the call had gone out.

Elrond and Elros – among the first of the long-separated to find each other again after all this time – had thrown a joint Imladris-Númenor party that had diminished the overall supplies of wine and honey cakes on hand at Taniquetil to virtually nothing. Thranduil had even thrown in the remainder of his horde of Dorwinion, only to turn around and drink most of it himself and slip quietly and unnoticed under the table in a dead stupor. The collective hang-over and aversion to the thought of _anything_ with honey in it among the attendees was monumental, entirely suited to the occasion. The sounds of moans and people shushing each other the moment one tried to say anything louder than in a whisper were becoming tiresome.

Legolas, on the other hand, had been ecstatic to find Aragorn, Arwen, Éomer, Faramir, Boromir, and the other mortals he had so cherished, who were among the first to arrive back from beyond the Circles of the World. He immediately herded them over to where all the hobbits – past and present – were gathered, and another feast took place that rivaled that of the Peredhil. However, this party sent the participants away with such full bellies from the non-stop, seven-meal schedule that none seemed to want to even look at a soda cracker again, although the overall spirit of the group remained high amid the groans and complaints of stomach-aches. To prevent unnecessary ill will from developing, Estë had made certain that the livelier celebration took place well away from those still debating in hushed tones whether 'hair of the dog' was a genuine hangover cure.

"Well?" a large voice demanded. "I thought we were getting together to kick some Dark Lord butt, not just to schmooze."

"Hush, Fëanáro!" A slender, dark-haired woman next to him elbowed him hard in the ribs. "It will take time to summon all…"

" _ **SHHHHHHHHHH!**_ " hissed several dozen from the Peredhil side of things, and several others simply waved shushing hands in front of agonized faces. Even Thranduil snorted in his sleep and rolled a little further under the table.

"I told you it was not a good idea to let _that_ one out too soon," Ulmo muttered under his breath at Námo, nodding at Fëanor. "There he goes, shooting his mouth off again…"

"Oh leave off!" Námo shot back. "He has been chomping at the bit ever since he happened to overhear me listening in on that radio station that Manwë liked so well – you know, the one that announced that today is The Last Day. I figured a few days sooner or later really wouldn't make _that_ much difference."

The Elder King looked beyond his brothers and then smiled. "Look over there, though. At least _they_ are behaving themselves for a change…"

Ulmo turned to see Maglor pull his flame-haired brother into a tight embrace, and for the pair to be surrounded by five others. "Oh shit! There goes the neighborhood. Again."

"Now, now. We shall need their… um… enthusiasm when the time comes," Manwë said with forced jocularity and then twisted his head back and forth. "But there should be a few more… I thought Eru meant for all of the Mortals to be a part of this too – and not just those from the Third Age."

"Over there. Another lot is just now arriving – a mixed group and a rather large one at that, spanning all the Ages, I understand…"

The clump of Valar turned as one in the direction of Estë's gesture to observe a rather confused looking Denethor making his way into the crowd, leaning heavily on the shoulder of Eärnur and leading a large new contingent into the area. Denethor's face broke into a hesitant smile when he caught sight of his sons, although that radiance dimmed as it was Aragorn who saw _him_ and excused himself to come welcome him.

"What are _you_ doing here?" the old Steward demanded. "Still taking things that don't belong to you?"

"Nothing belongs to any of us anymore," Aragorn laughed at him. "I've been as dead as you these many years. Can't we let bygones be bygones?"

"It really doesn't matter anymore, you know," Eärnur commented bitterly. "There's no Gondor to fight over anymore, gentlemen, if you hadn't noticed."

"Oh. Yeah. That's true." Denethor eyed Aragorn cautiously, and then put out a hand. "Truce, then?"

"I can do that."

"Hey, Abboooooott! Get a load of the fake ears on these guys! The makeup department musta made some pretty good advances since we were under contract!"

"Ow!! Stop that!"

Ossë rushed over to prevent an irate and still half-drunken Glorfindel from punching a very confused Lou Costello in the face, and then had to put out a hand to prevent the none-too-steady Elven Lord from falling on and squishing his diminutive assailant. "Now, now," he chastened both of them, "we shall have plenty to do, fighting the Dark Lord once and for all; we need not take pot-shots at each other."

"Then tell that Mortal maroon to stop pulling on my ears!" the Balrog-slayer demanded, massaging a pointy appendage that was quite red from the tweaking it had received.

"Geez, but you're a tall drink of water!" the incorrigible Costello commented when he had to back away to keep from straining his neck to look at the blonde fellow with all the hair and pointy ears to boot. "What did your momma feed you, anyway?"

Erestor gave Ossë a blink of thanks as he slipped past the Maia to claim Glorfindel's elbow. "Elrond needs to speak to you," he explained quickly when the angered glare shifted to his face. "Now."

"Elrond? I thought he was still sleeping it off. Although…" Glorfindel's face folded into a leer, and golden eyebrows raised and lowered meaningfully. "…if _my_ wife had danced that way, with that little on, sleeping would be the last thing I would be…"

"Maybe it was Dior then who asked for you. The two of them look a lot alike, frankly. But one way or another, you need to be somewhere else." Erestor was far more steady on his feet, utterly serious and completely at ease with shifting excuses to drag his friend away from a pending fisticuffs. "Save your energies, you big oaf. The One only knows if you're going to get a rematch with that Balrog again."

"Death to all Balrogs!!!" Glorfindel bellowed at the top of his lungs, his fist thrust defiantly into the air.

" _ **SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!**_ " The hungover Elves truly did look pathetic and even Thranduil let out a low moan.

Lórien wandered over to the side of things to stand next to Manwë. "You know that if that preacher fellow you were listening to was mistaken, we are going to have a lot of very confused and upset people on our hands, do you not?"

"I know," Manwë replied very softly. "But that guy sounded so _sure_ of himself. And the One knows that the One has not been providing me with much information of late. But look around – Arda's a mess. Surely this has to be the time spoken of and foretold…"

"Have you repented and let JEEzuz into your hearts?"

The two Valar looked down in surprise and consternation at the spare and withered little Mortal standing in front of them, waving a thick, black book at them with a slightly crazed look in his eye. "I beg your pardon? Whom am I supposed to let in - and _where_?" Lórien asked, his voice as polite as he could make it.

"Me." The Valar turned as both were tapped on the shoulders. A brown-skinned, gentle-faced man in rather different configuration of robes smiled up at them and shrugged as he shook his bearded face sadly. "Frankly, I'd be happy if folks would just use their heads for something besides holding their ears apart and treat others the way they themselves want to be treated, but then, poor fellows like that wouldn't have a livelihood anymore, would they?"

“Excuse me,” Pat Robertson growled. “I wasn’t talk to _you_...”

"That's OK," another lightly-accented voice enjoined, and a serene Oriental gentleman, in the company of an Arab fellow complete with keffiyeh came forward and bowed. "Our respective followers didn't listen to us very well either. Mine made a cottage industry out of contemplating their navel lint and making sounds like a swarm of bees."

"And mine even started believing they would inherit a never-ending supply of virgins when they killed those who didn't agree with them. It never occurred to them that there simply _aren't_ that many virgins in the world." The Arab fellow looked disgusted. "Have you ever tried to recycle virgins so that supply meets demand? It isn't fun, believe me!"

The trio exchanged pained glances and heaved a collective sigh before linking arms and trundling off together, clearly bemoaning the short-sightedness of those who claimed to follow their teachings. Pat Robertson sniffed in derision and toddled off to assail the next nearest clump of people.

Námo scowled. "That is really quite disheartening."

"I told you all that if you left Ennor to its own devices, you would rue the day," Aulë commented snidely.

"No, that was _me_ who said that. _You_ just happened to agree with me at the time," Aiwendil shot back as he walked by, carrying a tray of full glasses of wine. " _You_ were just as quick to leave Mortals to their own fates as the rest of them when the time came, and you know it. Meanwhile, Pallando, Allatar and I ended up stuck there for eons…"

"You made it home, did you not?" Manwë grumbled. "Quit complaining, or I can see to it that you end up back there again." His scowl deepened as he turned to look Aulë up and down. "And _you_ look like you just came up from the forge."

"I did. Do you want to make an issue of it?"

"This is supposed to be a special occasion! Dagor Dagorath, remember? Is that how you want Melkor to see you, all decked out in working leathers, smelling of ash and sweat? At least put on a shirt! You will have the Mortal maidens all flustered, at this rate…"

"Oh, stick it in your ear! I have better things to do than stand around waiting for the wind to whistle through the trees announcing the End of Days. I came for the honeycakes, only to hear Elrond claim that they are all gone already." The Vala looked about him derisively. "Even the wine is gone now. This is a monumental waste of time, and you know it."

"I know no such thing!" Manwë growled. "Pastor Camping is absolutely certain that he has the mathematics all figured out properly this time…"

A deep bell sounded, and all who were gathered looked up and around in confusion.

Manwë's heart dropped to the soles of his shoes. "Oh damn."

"What was that?" Ulmo demanded.

"That," Manwë stated, his face getting redder by the moment, "was the bell tolling the end of the day." He looked around at the multitude. "It is now May 22, and we are all still here. Even the ones who were _sure_ they were going to be Raptured are still at it." He gestured at a rather large clump of people, sitting on the ground, arms interlinked, singing something that sounded like “Koom -ba – yah.”

A female voice soared a descant over the distant caterwauling. "Of course, he was wrong. I told Manwë that little Mortal was blowing smoke, but did he listen to me? NOOOoooo…" Varda was complaining to a sympathetically nodding Vaire.

"Where is the earth-shattering earthquake and ka-BOOM?" Fëanor grumbled to anyone in the vicinity who would listen. "There was supposed to be a huge, catastrophe-making earth-shattering ka-BOOM!" He shook off a clinging Nerdanel, who continued to try to calm him. "No! I will not shut up! I missed out on all the catastrophe stuff last time around! I want the earth-shattering ka-BOOM! After all, Melkor stole my shinies and started all this…"

"And I wanted another chance at that Balrog," Glorfindel whined pitifully at Erestor, who merely rolled his eyes at him and tugged harder at the golden one’s elbow. "Stop that – I am much better now with the sword than I was back then."

" _Suuure_ you are."

"You do not believe me?"

"Of course, I do…"

“You do not sound like it...”

Varda stomped up to face off with her husband. "Well, what do you intend to do _now_? You summoned them all for Dagor Dagorath, which obviously is _not_ going to take place today."

"I was so _sure_ …"

"No, that crazy _preacher_ was sure, you mean," she sneered. "Just as he was certain it was supposed to happen a few years back, and just as others just like him have been certain of the same thing off and on for the better part of the last two _ennin_. You would think that a long history of predictions of this sort coming to naught would have taught you caution, husband."

"I…"

"She has you there," Námo told him mercilessly. "And just look at the way this lot has trampled all her flowerbeds. I foresee you spending your nights in places other than…"

"Enough!" Manwë snapped, as much because he knew Námo was right as anything else. Varda had opposed sounding the summons, and she would rub it in endlessly that she had been right – he was sure of it. It would be a long time before he could get another glimpse of that lovely lavender negligee that he liked so well – the one that hid so little...

"So." He turned to face Varda again as she broke the silence that had fallen to repeat her question: "what _do_ you intend to do about this?"

He shrugged. "Do we have a choice? We shall have to break the news to them that the prediction was… premature."

"Just who is this 'we' you speak of?" Her fists found her waist as she set her arms akimbo.

Manwë sighed, then cringed at the look of disgust on his wife's face. "Very well. _I_ will have to tell them." He put up a finger when Varda opened her mouth again. "Do not say it…"

She ignored him – as usual. "How many times did I tell you never to listen to those silly religious radio programs from Endorë? Did I not tell you that those Mortals have no more of an idea of the One's Intent than you do?"

"Yes, dear…" He ignored the snicker from Námo. There was no other response at the moment. The truth rankled too.

"And now we have all these people here, crushing all my flowers. Only some of them are conscious, and none of them have anything to do anymore than just loiter here and make a bigger mess. Námo's cleaning service in Mandos has not had a chance to finish servicing the many rooms yet, not to mention the gate at the outer Circles of the World closed accidentally and locked behind Jimmy Hoffa when he came in – and until we find someone who can pick the lock, we shall be stuck with entertaining the Mortals."

"Only the dead ones; we can send the rest back home…"

Varda 's glower darkened, and Manwë suspected that he was in too much trouble to make jokes about the matter.

"And…" She pointed over to where George W. Bush, in a flight suit, was tugging at the chains that held the gates to the Void closed, cheered on by a red capped Donald Trump waving about what looked like a triple-decker hamburger. "… _those_ two worry me greatly."

"Look at it this way: if either of them manages to get _that_ gate open, then at least the summons would not have been for nothing – right?" Manwë smiled toothily at her, only to be rewarded by her hand thwapping him on the backside of his head. Yup, he really _was_ in too deep for jokes to help.

"Well, since our brother is so reluctant to offer to help, I guess I could host this mob in our gardens until you get the gate to the outer Circles of the World open again," Lórien said finally, despite the fact that _his_ wife was making frantic "shut up" gestures at him. "Get Olórin to make sure the busses and ferries can get the living Mortals back to Endorë first, though. Yavanna can help us keep them from ruining your spring planting, my dear," he added in an effort to placate Estë, with no visible success.

Námo breathed a sigh of relief, and Manwë agreed quickly without even having to consult his better half. "I shall go find Olórin," he declared, taking a sideways step away from Yavanna. "Perhaps, _vanimelda,_ love of the Ages, if you could kindly awaken Elrond…"

"What do we do about that Pastor Camping?" Nienna said with a sniffle. "He is bound to be quite distraught…"

"He should be," Varda grumbled, and a thoroughly frustrated Estë nodded agreement. "Let him stew over the part of his own holy book that tells him that none might know the exact time of The End." She turned her glare back to her husband. "And he should not be the only one to meditate on that lesson."

Manwë eventually had to climb up on one of the hobbit's tables and have Eönwë sound the silver trumpets. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? There has been a slight change in plans…"

In short order, the living Mortals had been rounded up and segregated from those who had passed beyond the Circles of the World – although there were several instances of those who did not want to leave their dearly departeds behind. Aulë brought out some quickly crafted tools from his forge, and in short order had the gates to the outer Circles of the World open again. Glorfindel and Erestor helped Legolas pull Thranduil out from under the table and dragged him between them when the Elvenking’s legs still wouldn’t hold him up. Olórin had to finally put on his Super-Gigantic, Extra-Intimidating Angel of Wrath _fana_ to get the Al-Qaida contingent to let go of Osama Bin Laden. They still didn't stop struggling, however, until he promised them more virgins; and then it was a footrace for the bus headed to Riyadh.

From somewhere, Námo and Lórien managed to summon carriages and horses sufficient to transport those who would refuse to walk all the way to the Gardens of Lórien, and in record time the immense field that was the test garden for Yavanna's latest projects stood clear of all but the feasting tables covered with dirty dishes and overturned wine goblets.

"I do not believe this," Varda muttered to herself, deciding that her first stop in starting to clean things up would be the hobbit corner. Perhaps there would be some interesting left-overs to nibble on. The only good thing to come of this was having hobbits in the Blessed Lands again, even if only for a little while. The food was never so good or plentiful as when served by Shirefolk.

Maybe she should have talked to a few with the last name of Gamgee to help her put her garden to rights again since Yavanna was going to be otherwise occupied? _Ah well, too late now…_


End file.
